


Personal Valet

by everybodylies



Category: Elementary (TV)
Genre: Detective Noir, Gen, Post-3x15
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-22
Updated: 2015-02-22
Packaged: 2018-03-14 15:58:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,026
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3416750
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/everybodylies/pseuds/everybodylies
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Joan and her new office.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Personal Valet

**Author's Note:**

> I saw some people were disappointed by Joan's new office, but I thought it was kind of cool, like a classic crime noir kind of theme. So I wrote this! Beware, cliches abound.

There are plenty of private detectives in New York City, but only one had come highly recommended to me by many of my acquaintances. Traveling from the Bronx to Brooklyn was quite the trek, but I wanted—no, _needed_ —the best PI in the city. I wasn’t going to settle.

It was pouring rain when I finally arrived at the address I had been given. The street glimmered, as the puddles on the ground reflected the dull orange light of the lampposts. I jogged up the stairs of the brownstone and knocked rapidly on the door, desperate to get out of the cold.

Eventually, a man came to the door. He was of average height, with a grizzled, worn face, and his hair stuck up in all different directions. His shirt was crinkled, buttoned up all the way to the top.

“Yes, what is it?” he said in a British accent, looking impatient.

“I’m looking for a detective,” I said. “Joan Watson? Is she here?”

“She’s in the basement.” He gestured to the left. “Walk around to the back of the building and enter through the green door.”

I shivered as a gust of wind chilled me to my core. “Can’t I just… go through the building?”

“No, you cannot,” the man said, and shut the door.

Shrugging, I followed the man’s directions.

“Come in,” a woman’s voice shouted when I knocked. I tried my best to squeeze the rain from my dripping clothes before I entered.

The basement was illuminated only by a single overhead lightbulb, which swung back and forth slightly on its chain and left the corners dark and eerie. A woman with bright eyes sat behind the desk, her face flickering in and out of the shadows. She looked up at me and gave me a friendly smile.

“Are you Ms. Watson?” I asked.

“Please, call me Joan,” the woman replied. “Have a seat. Sorry it’s a bit dark down here; I just started setting up this office. What can I help you with?”

I introduced myself, told Joan about my 22 year old brother, Riley, who I hadn’t heard from for over a month. He hadn’t gone missing, not really. His apartment had been packed up, but he hadn’t told me or our parents where he’d gone. I’d gone to the police, but they’d turned up nothing. I was sure Riley hadn’t been murdered or kidnapped or anything, but I was still worried to death.

“I’ll take your case, Ms. Hunt,” Joan said, eyes sympathetic.

“I—”

I was interrupted by the sound of heavy steps above me and a man calling, “Watson! Wat-sooooon!” There was a large thump and then an even larger thump.

Joan put a hand over her eyes and shook her head, the hint of a smile on her face. “He’s done that three times this week,” she muttered. Then, she looked at me and explained, “We just nailed that door shut a week ago. He’s not good with change.”

“Watson,” the man said, a little quieter this time and more pathetic.

“In a minute, Sherlock,” Joan shouted back. “I’m with a client.” She turned to me. “Don’t worry, Ms. Hunt. I’ll find your brother. I’m good at my job.”

“So I’ve heard,” I said.

* * *

It was raining again. I waited under the overhang, watching the raindrops splatter on the ground. Five minutes later, Joan walked out from the fog. She took off her fedora and trench coat, shaking the rain off.

“Sorry to keep you waiting, Ms. Hunt,” she said, getting out her keys. “Let’s go inside.”

“Please, Joan, what have you found out about my brother?” I asked, once seated. “Is he okay?”

“He’s fine,” Joan said, though her face looked pained. “He’s alive, safe.”

I sighed in relief. “Thank God. Where is he?”

“… I can’t tell you.”

“What?”

“He moved away from New York to get away from your parents and to be with his boyfriend. He knew your parents would never accept his choices, so he left. He doesn’t want your parents to find him, so he asked me not to tell you where he was. And I have to respect his choice.”

My heart fell. “He doesn’t trust me?”

“I’m sorry. I tried to talk to him, but he was pretty adamant,” Joan said, putting her hand on mine.

“So that’s it?” I asked. My eyes were tearing up. “He’s just completely out of my life forever?”

Joan bit her lip. “No. He doesn’t have to be.” She hesitated, then slid a piece of paper across the desk. “This is his email. He told me not to give it to you… but he’s young. Impulsive. And an email’s practically harmless.”

I reached for the paper greedily, but Joan’s hand hadn’t let it go yet.

“If you want this though, you have to promise not to tell your parents anything. At all.” Joan’s eyes suddenly turned dark. “Do you understand?”

“I promise,” I said quickly. Then again, more solemn this time. “I promise.”

Joan let go of the paper, and I clutched it close to me, careful not to smudge the ink.

The door opened, and the same man from before entered, carrying a tray.

“Sherlock?”

“Watson. I thought you and your client could use some warm tea after walking through that horrid weather,” the man said in his posh accent.

“Oh, thanks, this is lovely.”

The man, wearing a blazer over a suit vest, started pouring tea for the both of us, and I looked at him, confused. “Are you… the butler?” I asked.

The man put the teapot down, furrowing his eyebrows at me. “No, I—”

“Actually,” Joan said, “he’s my personal valet.”

He looked sharply at Joan who smiled back. They looked like they were sharing some kind of inside joke. He then turned to me and gave me a sickly sweet smile. “Yes. I am the valet. Milk or sugar?”

“Er, no thanks,” I said, taking the proffered teacup.

The man then left the dark basement, and I left soon after. But before I did, I looked back at Joan Watson, her face half cloaked in shadow, and said thanks.


End file.
